


kardía

by asperityblue



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A whole lot of angst, Angst, F/F, M/M, Pining, Prompt Fill, Sort of case fic, Unrequited Love, but there's a cool new OC so that makes up for it right?, hearts and related matters, totally ignoring season 3 as usual
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-09
Updated: 2015-03-09
Packaged: 2018-03-17 02:56:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3512618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asperityblue/pseuds/asperityblue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Epicardium, myocardium, endocardium. <br/>The heart is a strange organ, he thinks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	kardía

_Epicardium, myocardium, endocardium._  The heart is a strange organ, he thinks, gloved fingers pressing gently at the thin wrists of the victim.

A shot to the head means instantaneous death, painless, no chance to think before the bullet stretches and tears through skin and muscle and bone. Intellect, logical problem solving, everything essential to the Work, gone as metal dives into the prefrontal cortex and then the hippocampus. Sherlock knows plenty about the brain.

The heart, on the other hand, when shot lets the blood pressure in your body seep out and pool, but nevertheless still takes approximately 15 seconds to lose brain function. Enough time to scream or beg or confess. Enough to say goodbye.

He glances over at John, in the corner chatting to Molly about something inane. A second later, John looks across, catches his eye, smiles a little. There's a slight ache somewhere behind Sherlock's ribs.

"So. Any ideas?"

"Four at the moment."

John's smile grows a little wider.

In actual fact Sherlock's almost sure it's the victim's ex-boyfriend; gunshots to the heart are almost always crimes of passion. She'd already had some sort of heart disease, he'd probably thought himself witty and philosophical. Dull, really, but the wound is ridiculously neat, a little morbidly mesmerising, and he's reluctant to leave without examining it further.

Molly breaks the silence with a cheerful exclamation, says, "I nearly forgot to tell you! I invited a friend to come down. Her name's Eve, she's a cardiac specialist, works upstairs in the center. Just thought you might want some input?"

He rolls his eyes, starts to say, "That's really not necessary, Molly, I think I've quite—" when the door swings open and a new piece of data walks into the morgue.

She's tall, maybe a few inches shorter than him. Dark, shoulder-length hair (straightened) swept across and over her head. English, Irish descent, eyes blue and intelligent (sharp). Pristine white lab coat. Her gaze slips across the room, stops at Molly, and isn't that interesting? Eyebrows lifting, mouth tilting ever so slightly, she looks at Molly like she's the very definition of comfort. It takes her a while to even notice the detective and his doctor.

When she does, she turns to them both, waves her hand a little, grins and says, "Doctor Eve Lewis, at your service, detectives."

John smiles back. He offers a handshake and a curt, "Doctor John Watson. He's the detective, I'm just here as a sounding board."

She shakes his hand twice, turns to the metal table.

"Yes," Sherlock says, turning away from Eve's outstretched hand, "John is a brilliant conductor of light."

"You're Sherlock Holmes, then. I've heard plenty about you."

"Clearly."

"Right. Now, I do believe we have a body to examine?"

He's pleasantly surprised when Doctor Lewis turns out to be quite the expert in her field. Her knowledge only further supports the hypothesis he'd already decided upon, but it manages to quench at least some of his curiousity. They stand over the examination table for the better part of an hour, sharing theories and possible tests and scans. The fact that she works at the specialized lab required (and therefore he wouldn't be accused of _trespassing_ again) is just an added bonus.

John drifts off to the other end of the morgue at some point, continues his muttered conversation with Molly apart from the occasional exclamation of "Fantastic!" upon overhearing a particularly interesting deduction.

Sherlock's very nearly done when Eve glances across at the other two, mouth curling up at the corners as she watches Molly gesture wildly while John nods along, amused. He follows her gaze, feels his posture relax just a fraction at the top of his spine. Affecting an air of casualness, he says, "Have you told her?"

Eve's blue eyes snap back, linger on the side of his head. Sherlock doesn't move, doesn't meet her gaze, stares straight out at the worn-gold strands of John's hair instead. He pointedly doesn't elaborate, knows they both know what he's asking.

"Have you?" she retaliates, and he finally turns to her, sees laughter in eyes just a shade too bright, a small smirk on lips far too lush and feminine. He frowns and the merriment in her expression falls off onto the tiled floor.

He looks away, thinks of hallways resounding with ridiculously high-pitched giggles, gunshots through windows, but also the constant line of girlfriends, firm statements of _not gay_. In all his life, Sherlock had never wanted for much, had grown up in luxury, had carved his own way through the world. His John—not really _his_ —is the only thing he's ever wanted. It seems appropriate that it should be out of his reach. He smiles slightly, sad and a touch wistful, stares unseeingly at the neat wound in the heart of the young victim.

He empathises with her, just a little.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a prompt on Instagram, where you can find me at @sherlodgings  
> -  
> Kudos and comments are much appreciated :)


End file.
